of wolves and girls
of forests and winter
rating: pg
characters: Clint Barton, Nick Fury, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark
warnings: none
summary: There is a wolf inside her heart, a wolf calling through her veins, and she knows the safest thing to do is to keep it there. [Werewolf AU]
They howl in the night, a pack song rising with the lust of the hunt and the warmth of their harmonies, and she has to convince her wolf to stay inside her skin, claws poking at her fingertips, fur brushing against her wrists. Curled into the driver’s seat of her beat-up Corolla, she tucks her knees against the steering wheel and rests her head against the window. It is cold against her forehead, cold against her cheek, and the pack song weaves through moonlit air in the distance.
There is no place in it for her voice, for her, and she presses her shoulder into the door frame until she aches.
.
.
Lone wolves tread lightly, tread cautiously, and she slips across the boundary lines with a shadow as her ghost, low and quiet and staying out of sight, out of mind. Someone catches her scent at the old motel with dogwood flowers carved into the headboards, mildew collecting in the corners on splotchy patterned wallpaper; she hears the stranger stop, inhale, and let out the faintest growl.
The window is open and the tail lights of her Toyota are dancing over the asphalt by the time he brings reinforcements back, knocking on a door that will not open.
.
.
Natalia Alianova is a killer; Natalie Roman is the pale imitation of who she used to be.
.
.
She lets her lips curl, showing the edges of her teeth, the hint of a fang, and snaps, “I don’t need a pack.”
There is an anger in her vicious words that carries, in its rough way, and hits her in the gut.
“That might be true.” Fury studies her, his eye level and gleaming, shoulders broad and high and screaming alpha. “Doesn’t mean you might not want one, though.”
Her wolf whines, low and faint and miserable, and she curses the monsters that have made her this way.
.
.
“They took - something from me,” she says, the words stumbling in her mouth, over her tongue, injuries that should be kept from sight, hidden so no one knows her weaknesses - but there are far too many of those to pretend she is anything but a shadow.
Clint’s hand covers her, warm and human and light with the touch of a wolf.
“I know.” He considers her, head cocked, gaze lightened by the moonlight. “You want to try and get it back?”
She tips her head forward and rests it against his, tired and desperate and so tired of playing this game, and says nothing.
The wolf trembles inside her, crouched underneath her skin.
.
.
Natalia Alianova is a killer. Natalie Roman is a cover.
Natasha Romanoff is waiting to wake up.
.
.
The pack bonds snap into place, electricity and metal and dancing across her soul, and with the connection comes tearing back the pieces of her that had been stripped away with fangs and hate.
She roars, the beast clawing awake within her, rejoicing in the lightning, and the joy of the hunt sings in her veins.
.
.
Natalia Alianova is a killer. Natalie Roman is a shade. Natasha Romanoff smiles with blood on her lips and lifts her voice in song, lingering and solo and sending shivers down the spines of lesser men.
And they are all lesser men.
.
.
“Coming, Romanoff?” Stark gestures impatiently to the back of the limo as Steve gives her an understanding grin from the back seat, the smell of the vodka Clint’s pouring into glasses and the sound of Jane’s voice tumbling out from behind him.
Natasha considers - and smiles.
rating: pg
characters: Clint Barton, Nick Fury, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark
warnings: none
summary: There is a wolf inside her heart, a wolf calling through her veins, and she knows the safest thing to do is to keep it there. [Werewolf AU]
They howl in the night, a pack song rising with the lust of the hunt and the warmth of their harmonies, and she has to convince her wolf to stay inside her skin, claws poking at her fingertips, fur brushing against her wrists. Curled into the driver’s seat of her beat-up Corolla, she tucks her knees against the steering wheel and rests her head against the window. It is cold against her forehead, cold against her cheek, and the pack song weaves through moonlit air in the distance.
There is no place in it for her voice, for her, and she presses her shoulder into the door frame until she aches.
.
.
Lone wolves tread lightly, tread cautiously, and she slips across the boundary lines with a shadow as her ghost, low and quiet and staying out of sight, out of mind. Someone catches her scent at the old motel with dogwood flowers carved into the headboards, mildew collecting in the corners on splotchy patterned wallpaper; she hears the stranger stop, inhale, and let out the faintest growl.
The window is open and the tail lights of her Toyota are dancing over the asphalt by the time he brings reinforcements back, knocking on a door that will not open.
.
.
Natalia Alianova is a killer; Natalie Roman is the pale imitation of who she used to be.
.
.
She lets her lips curl, showing the edges of her teeth, the hint of a fang, and snaps, “I don’t need a pack.”
There is an anger in her vicious words that carries, in its rough way, and hits her in the gut.
“That might be true.” Fury studies her, his eye level and gleaming, shoulders broad and high and screaming alpha. “Doesn’t mean you might not want one, though.”
Her wolf whines, low and faint and miserable, and she curses the monsters that have made her this way.
.
.
“They took - something from me,” she says, the words stumbling in her mouth, over her tongue, injuries that should be kept from sight, hidden so no one knows her weaknesses - but there are far too many of those to pretend she is anything but a shadow.
Clint’s hand covers her, warm and human and light with the touch of a wolf.
“I know.” He considers her, head cocked, gaze lightened by the moonlight. “You want to try and get it back?”
She tips her head forward and rests it against his, tired and desperate and so tired of playing this game, and says nothing.
The wolf trembles inside her, crouched underneath her skin.
.
.
Natalia Alianova is a killer. Natalie Roman is a cover.
Natasha Romanoff is waiting to wake up.
.
.
The pack bonds snap into place, electricity and metal and dancing across her soul, and with the connection comes tearing back the pieces of her that had been stripped away with fangs and hate.
She roars, the beast clawing awake within her, rejoicing in the lightning, and the joy of the hunt sings in her veins.
.
.
Natalia Alianova is a killer. Natalie Roman is a shade. Natasha Romanoff smiles with blood on her lips and lifts her voice in song, lingering and solo and sending shivers down the spines of lesser men.
And they are all lesser men.
.
.
“Coming, Romanoff?” Stark gestures impatiently to the back of the limo as Steve gives her an understanding grin from the back seat, the smell of the vodka Clint’s pouring into glasses and the sound of Jane’s voice tumbling out from behind him.
Natasha considers - and smiles.